Gault's Guilt
by owlcroft
Summary: Judge Gault gets his comeuppance, in a fashion.


GAULT'S GUILT

Both men raced for the phone, but McCormick won and answered "Hardcastle's Tattoo Parlor and Dog Walking Service". The Judge snatched the phone away and glared as McCormick snickered and headed back toward the kitchen.

"Hullo!" Hardcastle barked.

There were a few seconds of silence then a male voice said tentativly "Milt?"

"Yeah!"

"Uh. . . it's Rick Gault, Milt. I guess you're letting that 'project' of yours answer the phone these days."

Hardcastle said without hesitating, "Actually, I thought it was pretty damn funny, Rick," while checking to make sure there was no eavesdropper in the vicinity. "What can I do for ya?" Meanwhile, the Judge was furiously thinking how to handle this particular caller.

Gault made a faint mooing sound --"mmmm-uhh"-- and then said "I know there's reason to expect a favor from you, Milt, but I'm asking anyway. Would it be possible for me to stop by your place in about 20 minutes? I've got a real problem and you're the only person I can think of that might be able to handle it for me without it becoming public."

Judge Hardcastle grimaced and tried desperately to think of an excuse. "Gee, Rick, I was just about to join a monastery"? No. With a deep sigh, he said "Well, sure, I guess so. Sorry to hear you've got a problem, but come on over and we'll see what we can do."

With sincere, yet grudging, thanks, Judge Richard Gault hung up and Hardcastle had a problem; how was he going to tell McCormick that the jerk who had him wrongly arrested was due in a few minutes to ask for a favor? He had a hard enough time accepting it himself. Gault cheated at cards, was narrow-minded and stubborn, and made lousy dip for his poker parties. Other than that, the man was a prince.

Hardcastle headed for the kitchen and pushed open the door. "What'cha doing in here, anyway?" he groused "and who taught you how to answer a phone?"

McCormick turned from the sink and said "I'm making potato salad and if you make any more cracks about my manners, you can't have any."

"Oooh, with hard-boiled eggs?" pleaded the judge.

Mark shook his head and motioned toward the fridge with his chin "No eggs left, look for yourself. You'll have to settle for my internationally-famous Potato Salad a la McCormick, with chopped onions and pickles."

Hardcastle groaned slightly and opened the fridge door to check for the non-existent eggs. "Well, okay. Look, I gotta tell ya about that phone call and you're not gonna like it."

"Yeah, _there's_ something unusual – me not liking something you have to tell me." McCormick was hacking at a pickle and couldn't see Hardcastle's expression.

The Judge pulled out a chair and sat. "That was Judge Gault. He's coming over here to ask for a favor of some kind."

"Gault!" The name was a yelp. "What! I thought you dropped him from your social circle after we cleared up Teddy's little problem. Listen, maybe while he's here, I can borrow a cup of nerve, 'cause he's sure got plenty."

"You wanna ease up on that pickle a little? You'll be chopping into the countertop in a minute." Judge Hardcastle leaned forward and assumed his earnest look. McCormick didn't notice, being deeply involved with an onion at the moment. "He's not my favorite guy, either, ya know. But he asked, fairly nicely, and I said he could come over. It doesn't hurt to give him five minutes and if he gets too obnoxious, I'll use the code word "jackass" and you can dump him outside on his keister. Deal?"

"One question," replied a teary McCormick. "Suppose _I_use the code word first?"

- - - - - -

Judge Gault was punctual, which prompted Hardcastle to say "See, no-one's all bad. Just mostly."

On entering the den, Gault stopped short on seeing McCormick lounging in the wing chair at the end of the desk. "Oh. I didn't realize . . ." Gault turned to Judge Harcastle and said "Could we possibly be private?"

"Well, Rick," Hardcastle replied. "This is about as private as it gets around here." He sat at the desk and motioned his guest to a chair. "What's the problem and how do you think we can help?" There was just the slightest bit of emphasis on "we".

Gault grumbled, made a face, and shook his head disconsolately. Then he swore for a bit. "All right. I'm stuck. I can't go to the police and I can't just give in. Milt, whatever may have happened between us in the past, you still believe in justice and I don't know of anyone who likes a blackmailer."

"Aaaah," breathed the Judge. "Is _that _the problem?"

McCormick was being suspiciously quiet and stone-faced. Hardcastle started to worry just a bit.

"I got a photo in the mail today, with a note demanding $50,000 for the negative." Gault pulled an envelope out of his pocket and held it in his hand. "I can't got to the police with this and I don't trust private detectives with anything this . . . . sensitive. Milt, you've got to help me. I've only got three years to full retirement and this could destroy my career. I'd be a laughingstock." 

Hardcastle shot a glance at McCormick, but the kid let a golden chance go by without saying a word.

Gault reluctantly handed the envelope to Hardcastle, who asked "Prints?". Gault shook his head and said "That much I did have the police tell me." Hardcastle then pulled out the enclosed photograph and nearly dropped it in surprise. He passed it over to Mcormick with a fervent hope that the kid's silence would continue.

"Well, Rick. I can certainly understand you wanting to keep that quiet. I had no idea . . ."

"No, no, no!" Gault interrupted. I was in the Legal Eagle and somebody doped my drink. All I remember is some guy leading me out to find a taxi and then I woke up the next morning with a terrible headache and no memory of the previous night. I was in the Bardmore, right across the street from the Eagle and the room was all paid up. It was a set-up, Milt! I was set-up for this. . . this . . . filthy . . .horrible . . ."

"Horrible is right! Judge Gault, I've never seen anything as atrocious as this. Hardcase, you agree, right?" Mark was standing now, photo in hand at arm's length. "This is disgusting! With your skin tones, you should never wear lemon yellow! A nice sea-foam green, with a double-ruffle hem and bouffant sleeves to distract from your heavy shoulders, now that would be something else. But this!"

Hardcastle was facing the windows, fighting desperately for control. Judge Gault in a dress was one thing, but McCormick's fashion commentary was more than he could handle. "McCormick!" It was kind of strangled, but it stopped the kid in the middle of an explanation of which accessories Gault should've added.. "I, uh, I think we should, uh . . .look, Rick. Oh, hell!" It was hopeless. He blurted "Be right back!" and made a hasty exit.

When Harcastle returned, after a long drink of water, several deep breaths and mopping his eyes, he found Gault and McCormick actually discussing what happened. Apparently, Gault had the average number of enemies for a sitting judge and no idea at all who could be behind this particular attack.

Gault was saying "No, of course not. Once you've paid a blackmailer, you can never stop. That's why I _have_to find out who he is and figure out a way to get the negatives and any copies he's got."

McCormick was pacing in front of the desk. "Do you remember the guy who took you out of the bar enough to make an ID? Would the bartender be able to help?"

"I've no idea," said Judge Gault. "I did ask the hotel desk clerk about the room and who paid for it, but everything was done in cash, late at night. He was no help at all. Milt, if you can put an end to this persecution, I'll be deeply in your debt. Especially since it appears I was a little, um, overhasty in our last meeting."

"Well, the first thing I want to do is go through the files downtown and see if we can find anybody with this kind of M.O. that's been in your court." Hardcastle went over to his desk and added "Where can we reach you – I assume you'd rather get calls at home?"

"No!" Gault stood up. "You can leave messages at my chambers, but if my wife ever found out about this, I'd never hear the end of it. Milt, whatever you can do . . . please. I know we're not the best of friends, but the dignity of the court should mean something to you."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, Rick. We'll get started on it this afternoon, right after lunch, but don't expect to hear anything 'til tomorrow at the earliest. What kind of deadline do you have for the payment?"

"I got all that, Judge." McCormick headed up the stairs to the hall. "I'd better get lunch going so we can make tracks right after. Judge Gault, it's been interesting." With a wave, he disappeared kitchen-ward.

Hardcastle managed to get Rick Gault into his car and on his way without too much more palaver and then headed for the kitchen himself.

McCormick had an enormous bowl of potato salad on the table, with some sandwiches on a plate. Hardcastle had sat down and picked up a spoon when noticed Mark still standing and looking somber. "What?"

"I'm not all that hungry, Judge. You go ahead. Even _you_can't eat all that in one sitting. I'm going to take a walk and think for a bit. I won't be that long, back before you've got the dishes done."

As McCormick went out the back door, Hardcastle noticed the hard-boiled eggs in the potato salad and said "That damn kid! Where were they?"

Mark had a special place for problem-solving and just plain thinking. The beach for was emotions, the walk under the trees for comfort and serenity, but for thinking he went to the ugliest part of the estate – the formal garden. The white gravel walks and two-foot-high hedges were so boring and forgettable, it was the perfect place to let your mind chew on a problem. And the problem was: why did he feel obligated to help that code-word of a judge? Because he did. Was it because Hardcase was already committed to looking into it? Was it because it was _the right thing to do_?

After about twenty minutes, it was a little clearer. It was partly because blackmailers needed to be caught, partly because catching them was his job now, and partly because if he didn't, Hardcastle would be out there on his own and get into all sorts of trouble. With his thinking done for time being, Mark headed back to the kitchen to mention hard-boiled eggs five or six times.

- - - - - - - -

On the way to Rosie's office to try to cross-correlate hundreds of files, McCormick tried to sell the Judge on a plan he'd come up with. Why not tempt the blackmailer to try the same trick, but on a different judge? One with the intitals M.C.H.

"Are you crazy?" the judge objected. "The guy's not stupid. He's not gonna pull the same trick at the same place again. Besides, I look lousy in yellow, too."

"Ju-udge. Give it a chance. Maybe the guy _is_ stupid. He hasn't gotten anything from Judge Gault yet and he may be getting hammered by his creditors. What would it cost us? A night in a bar? Ooooh, how excruciating. I sure can't ask you to do anything like that, now can I?"

"Yeah, right, smart guy. And what would we do, switch drinks if the guy did show up and make a try at me?"

"Exactly. You'd have to dress a little, oh, sorry, bad choice of words. You'd have to _wear_ some snazzy clothes and maybe some rented jewelry to catch their attention, and talk up your reputation and prestige. Come on, Hardcase. Give it a try. It sure beats spending hours and hours going over dusty old files and hoping something clicks."

Hardcastle threw back his head and brushed a hand over his chin. "Tell ya what. Give me a few hours today with Rosy and the files and if we don't hit paydirt, we'll take a shot at your idea tomorrow night. It'll be Friday again and maybe that'll mean something. Okay?"

"Deal!" McCormick pressed just a trifle harder on the accelerator and the Coyote became a red blur.

- - - - - - - - -

"Well," sighed Judge Hardcastle. "The likeliest prospects are all eating at the state's expense. These others," he waved at a short pile of folders "could bear looking into, but they're all pretty doubtful. It looks like we're going out on the town, kiddo."

"Great. Now tell me about this bar, the Legal Eagle?" McCormick held the door for the judge and followed him out to the Coyote.

"It's a bar just down the street from the courthouse; been there for decades. Caters mostly to attorneys, judges, bailiffs, legal secretaties. Decorated in what you might call a legal motif. Little gavel-shaped ashtrays, scales of justice all over the place, a big sign behind the bar that says 'Justice is blind, but sometimes she sees in the dark'."

"Wow," McCormick drove out of the parking lot and shot off down the street. "Sounds really, um. . . . awful."

"Yeah, pretty much. But we're gonna stop by there now and see what the bartender can tell us. Take a right up there and it's 2 blocks down on the left."

"You got it, Kemo Sabe."

Hardcastle continued, "Now listen. I'll pump the bartender, while you check out the waitresses and anybody that looks like a regular. Make an effort and try not to let 'em know what's going on, okay? We are trying to keep this under wraps, ya know."

"Yep. I'm good with waitresses. Just try to restrain your admiration until we're out of there."

Another sigh from the Judge.

- - - - - - - - - -

"Well, at least I got a beer out of it. Otherwise, I'd think that was a real waste of time. How'd you do, Judge?"

"Not a whole lot better. The bartender was the same one on duty when Gault had his little adventure, but Fridays are their busiest night and he couldn't remember anything out of the ordinary. He didn't even remember Gault had been in." Hardcastle got as comfortable as he could in the Coyote as they sped towards Malibu. "Looks like we better practice drink-switching tonight."

"Judge, I need to talk to you about that." McCormick turned off the PCH into the Gulls-Way drive. "I know you want to get the guy responsible, but we don't know anything about him. He could be a Crazed Yogurt Killer."

"A what? " Hardcastle climbed carefully out onto the brickwork.

"A Crazed Yogurt Killer is what Melinda called people who were strange to begin with and got even stranger. "

"Melinda? Marshall? Your ex-girlfriend whose brain fell out her ear one day and she never found it?"

Mark nodded and followed the Judge into the house. "Yeah. I think she meant Yogurt-Crazed Killer, but that's Melinda."

Hardcastle sat at this desk and starting flipping through papers. "So instead of a crazy person who turns killer, we're talking about a crazy person who murders yogurt? Well, that's colorful but not real."

"Yup, that's Melinda, colorful but not real." Mark replied. "But whoever this turns out to be, he could be dangerous, ya know. And yeah, I'll be in the background, but we could be dealing with a real wacko here."

Hardcastle snorted. "What – you want me to watch out for a guy carrying a spoon?"

"Be serious, judge." 

"You're a fine one to talk about being serious."

"No, I mean it," perservered the younger man. "Don't underestimate the guy because he has lousy fashion sense. Just be careful, that's all I'm saying."

"I'll be careful and you'll be careful and the guy'll be history. Okay? Now, go get two lowball glasses and let's figure out how we want to do this."

For the next ten minutes, glasses were set down on the judge's desk, picked up, put back down, moved back and forth until the two men felt confident in their ability to move glasses on a desk.

"This is a waste of time," McCormick complained. "Just don't drink anything. If you think something's been put in there, spill it down your sleeve and act sleepy."

Hardcastle sighed. "Maybe you're right. I'm no sleight-of-hand artist, but I can spill with the best of 'em."

"Now we need to plan your wardrobe. What have you got that's classy without being cheap?" McCormick put the glasses on the coffee table. "Do you even own a plain black sport jacket?"

"No, but I got one that's navy that I save for weddings and funerals and graduations. Look, everybody down there will know me and they know I don't wear fancy-schmancy stuff. What's the big deal here?"

McCormick plopped into the wing chair and leaned his head back. "Ju-udge. You're supposed to look like you've got $50,000 sitting around just waiting for an enterprising young blackmailer to come along. How about a flashy watch? Or a gold bracelet?"

"Wait a minute. I'm not gonna dress up like some Hollywood hoo-ha just to make 'em think I got a bank account. I'm telling ya, these people know me and they're not gonna buy it!" Hardcastle went back to his papers. "I'll wear something I'd normally wear and that's it. End of discussion."

McCormick was staring into space. "Huh? Oh, yeah. But no Hawaiian shirts and no shorts. I don't want people calling the Coyote the Clownmobile."

Hardcastle grimaced at him as the kid stood up and headed into the hallway. "Where ya going?"

"I just thought of something. " the kid yelled back. "If they know _all_ the regulars there, I shoulda asked a different question." The door slammed.

The judge heard the Coyote take off and shook his head. "Probably forgot to get the waitress's phone number," he muttered.

- - - - - - - - - -

McCormick was late back for dinner. Hardcastle heard the front door slam and yelled "Where ya been? I'm not waiting for ya when you're this late!"

"Sorry about that," Mark grabbed his plate and went over to the stove. "Took a little longer than I thought, but I think we may have a suspect."

Hardcastle swallowed hastily and said "Who? What'd ya find out?"

McCormick took his place at the table and stared at the food on his plate in horror. "What_ is _this"

"It's hash and it's terrific. So shut up and tell me who's the suspect"

"I can't both shut up and tell you anything," Mark was picking at the pieces of potato in the mess before him. "It should've occurred to both of us that you're right. Everybody who goes to that bar knows everybody else. It's a neighborhood bar and the same people show up there over and over. So, who sat next to him last Friday that normally doesn't? Who had the chance to dope his drink and could've got him into the hotel room with no problems? Who cooked this stuff and where's the ketchup?"

"I did, it's hash and you're gonna eat it with no more complaining! Now, who was it?"

McCormick was pouring ketchup over the hash with abandon. "Well, Trixie . . ."

"Trixie?" interrupted the judge.

"Trixie, the waitress." McCormick went back to poking the red mess on his plate. "I'd asked her before if there was anything unusual she remembered or anybody she'd never seen in the place before. What I _should've _asked her was who did she notice near Gault that she'd never noticed near him before."

"Well?" the Judge refused to look at the hash-mess. "Who was it!"

"A guy named Stanley Plover." Mark gave up playing with the gooey blobs and leaned forward. "And you'll never guess what he does for a living."

"He's a fashion consultant to the stars. Come on, McCormick! What!"

McCormick got up and took his plate to the sink. "He's a desk clerk at the Bardmore Hotel." He opened the fridge and took out the left-over potato salad and some salami. "He comes in every night after his shift ends at 8 o'clock and has one short gin-and-tonic. He always sits off in the corner and listens to the fascinating stories the bailiffs are telling and then quietly leaves. _But_, that Friday, he sat next to Gault for a little while and when Trixie checked that area again for refills they were both gone."

"I'll be damned," the Judge said. "That's good work, kiddo. But we still gotta prove it. You said his shift ends at 8, right? So we could get there right when he goes off work tonight."

"But Judge," McCormick opened his eyes wide. "You haven't finished your hash."

"It's not that good. Let's go!"

Mark sighed, put the salami and potato salad back in the fridge and followed the Judge out to the Coyote. "Okay, but we're stopping at Burger Man on the way."

- - - - - - - - -

Hardcastle went up to the desk and asked the clerk "Are you Stanley Plover?"

The thin, bespectalled man turned around and said "Yes. May I help you?"

"Yeah, my name's Hardcastle," the Judge started.

"Oh, I recognize you, Judge Hardcastle. I'm quite a dedicated fan of yours and would welcome the opportunity to discuss various matter of a legal nature whenever you could free your schedule from the rigors of criminal pursuit," Stanely Plover managed to say in one breath.

"Great," the Judge smiled. "How about now?"

Plover smiled back and said "How fortuitous! My replacement has just entered, so perhaps we could adjourn to one of the vacant suites and converse in relative comfort. I'll just select a key. Please, Judge Hardcastle, this way. I cannot begin to convey my appreciation . . ."

Scribbling down the room number and dropping the piece of paper on the floor, Hardcastle followed the voluble Stanley Plover over to the elevator.

McCormick strolled over to the piece of paper and bent over to re-tie his sneaker. Picking up the paper as he stood up, he pocketed it and went toward the stairs.

"Donkey! His hand-writing's worse than mine. Is that 46 or 48? And this was a _dumb_ idea. That guy wouldv'e talked to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir the way he's running his mouth. There was no need for me to hang back here being a Secret Weapon." Mark made sure his lockpicks were in his pocket and started up.

Meanwhile, Hardcastle was trying vainly to stem the tide of Stanley Plover's admiration. "That's great. Really. Really nice of you to say, but . . ."

It was useless. Maybe the best thing would be to just let the guy run down on his own.

Five minutes later, that didn't seem like such a great plan. He tried again "Look, Mr. Plover-" was as far as he got.

"Oh, Judge Hardcastle, I would be honored if you would condescend to the use of my first name rather than my patronymic. Although we've not been more than acquaintances . . . "

Hardcastle turned him out and thought.

"Stanley!" he barked.

"Yes, your honor," Stanley seemed surprised.

"Stanley, I need to ask you something about Judge Gault." The Judge leaned against a dresser and folded his arms.

Stanley nodded vigorously and said "Indeed, Judge Hardcastle. That was a primary reason for my wishing to make your acquaintance. You see, I have a taken a vigilante action of my own that I would very much like to share with you."

"Hold it, Stanley. If you're gonna confess to an illegal action-" the Judge got that far before being interrupted by the irrepressible Plover.

"Oh, your honor! Say not that you think the less of me due to the comminition given to Judge Gault. Perhaps, your comprehension is faulty. Allow me to dilate on that subject. What it is essential for you to understand is this: Judge Gault is a person whose sensibilities are defective."

Meanwhile, Mark was listening carefully at the door of Room 46. With the lockpicks ready to spring the lock, he held his breath to hear better. When he was sure he heard another groan, he burst in the door, ready to go to the Judge's assistance. Instead, he came to an abrupt stop, turned pink and gasped "Oh! Uh . . . excuse me! Sorry. Go right ahead . . wrong room. Sorry!" and fled.

At Room 48, he didn't bother with the lockpicks, but desperately tried the knob. The door opened immediately and he was faced with Judge Hardcastle in a small panic. 

"Well!" boomed the judge. "Here's my ride, Stanley. Look, it's been great and we'll have to get together again another time, but right now I'm late for a uh, I'm really late," he grabbed Plover's hand, shook it enthusiastically and pushed McCormick out the door. "Thanks for a great talk and I comprehend completely and I'm certain there'll be no repercussions, oh God, it's catching. Bye, now!"

An angry man in a towel burst out of Room 46 and headed for the group of people in front of Room 48. McCormick heard him yell something about a Peeping Tom, immediately pointed at Stanley Plover and pulled the judge down the hall to the fire stairs. With one accord, Hardcastle and McCormick headed for the lobby at full speed.

Once safely in the Coyote and headed for Malibu, Mark pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and said "You have _got_ to write better!"

The Judge took the paper and looked at it. "What? That's a 4 and an 8."

"Yeah, I know that now, but it also looks like a 4 and a 6. Do you have any idea . . ."

"Yes, I do. And we don't need to talk about it. Do _you_ have any idea why Stanley Plover doped Gault and put him in a dress?"

"No, but you're gonna tell me." The Coyote pulled into Gulls-Way.

"Well, it seems old Stanley likes to sit and relax after a hard day's work of handing out keys by sitting in the Legal Eagle and hearing stories from the other customers about their work. Stanley's a big fan of the whole legal community, with one big exception." Hardcastle turned to McCormick and said "Guess."

McCormick stopped the Coyote and pulled himself out. "Okay. I know why I would've done the same thing. What's Stanley got against Gault?"

Hardcastle opened the front door and said "My head is killing me. I thought _you_ were a talker, but this guy's the champ at flapping his gums."

"How many aspirin, two or three?" Mark headed for the bathroom down the hall.

"Three and bring a spare." The Judge went to the chair he sat in to watch television and groaned as he sat. "See, Gault goes into the Eagle a couple of hours before Stanley and tips a few, so by the time Stanley comes in, Gault's feeling pretty um. . . relaxed. And when he's relaxed, he tends to be a little loud. Thanks." He swallowed the aspirin and put down the glass of water.

Mark handed him a damp washcloth for his forehead and said, "So, what? Does he interrupt people just when the stories are getting good?"

"Yeah, and he gets so loud he drowns them out, too. So, Stanley had enough last Friday and decided Gault needed to loose a little of his self-confidence. He told me, oh God, did he tell me stuff, that people will leave the most amazing things behind in a hotel, so he had this dress that somebody had left . . ."

"Somebody left her dress?" Mark looked dubious.

"Apparently so. So, Stanley figured with a blackmail threat, Gault would either cut down on the bar visits and/or be less assertive if he did show up. Bet it worked, too. Course, he never expected Gault to actually pay the $50,000. He just wanted him to sweat for a while."

"So, what do we tell Gault? He can't press charges without the whole thing going public." McCormick took the glass off the side table. "And all Stanley's good work will be for nothing if Gault finds out who's responsible."

Hardcastle nodded and shifted the washcloth. "Right. So, I promised Stanley I wouldn't squeal on him, but he had to promise not to resort to that kind of trick again. After all, I know where he is and if he tries his 'vigilante action" again, I'll be on him like flies on a cow patty."

"Nice image, Hardcase. How's the headache?"

"Still with me, but not throbbing as much. Guess I'd better call Gault and give him the good news." Hardcastle got up and headed for the phone.

"Hold it! He said not to call him at home, right?"

"Too bad." Hardcastle was already dialling. "Besides, this is good news and he'll want to hear it as soon as possible. Hello! Rick, good news. We found the guy and it's all over. No more pictures, no more demands, it's done. Yeah, I'm sure. Well, that's okay, I'm glad we could help. You're welcome. Actually, McCormick's the one who figured it out. Yeah. You bet. No, really, we're happy to help out. Sure. Absolutely. Yeah, see ya. Bye."

McCormick started up the steps to the hallway. "Well, there's one good thing we got out of this."

"Yeah," the judge looked up at him and squinted. "What?"

"At least now we know what a Crazed Yogurt Killer sounds like."

- - - - - - - - -

Epilogue

The Monday following the conclusion of the Crazed Yogurt Killer Case, McCormick answered the doorbell to find a messenger waiting with a flat box. "Package for Mark McCormick," the messenger said. "That's me," Mark said. "Hang on a minute."

Stepping into the den, he found the Judge looking at him expectantly. "Gimme $2, Judge." 

"What do you need it for?"

"Just gimme $2 and I'll tell ya." Taking the two bills to the door, he handed them to the messenger, signed for the package and said "Thanks."

"You gave my $2 to that guy? For what?"

"It's called a tip, Hardcase," Mark shouted as he opened the box. "You've probably never heard of that. Hey, it's from Judge Gault. There's a note that says it's a thank-you for me personally."

"Huh," said Hardcastle.

Wild laughter broke out in the hallway. "I can't . . . he sent . . ." The kid couldn't even talk, he was laughing so hard.

"What'd he send ya?" Hardcastle got to his feet and started for the steps.

"No! No! Don't come in here!" Mark was still laughing and barely understandable. "Wait! Just wait."

After a few seconds, still giggling, McCormick appeared in the doorway in a lacy Chanel-pink apron with "Kiss the Cook" embroidered on it. "Complete this outfit with matching maribou-trimmed mules and chandelier earrings." He pirouetted and floated toward the kitchen.

Hardcastle sat down weakly and covered his eyes. He hoped desperately the kid wouldn't wear that thing at dinner.


End file.
